It was the madness that fouled the air.
“Does either of you know where Philippe Beaulieu is?” she asked them, in French.
The smaller of the two men spat on the ground by her boot, but neither answered.
Duncan drew out his sword and rested the tip against the throat of the man who spat. “I know you don’t understand a word I say, but I’d answer her if I were you, you bastard, lest you look forward to having your head separated from your body.”
Duncan punctuated his statement by pressing the tip of his sword further against the trembling white flesh at the man’s neck.
The sneering bravery fled, to be replaced with terror as the eyes grew huge in the dirtied face.
“Once more,” Beth repeated in French, her agitation rising in her voice. She bent closer, though the stench of fire clung to the man’s clothes. “Do you know where they are keeping Philippe Beaulieu?”
At first, the man could not answer. When Duncan pressed the sword further and a trickle of blood emerged, the man cried out, nearly swallowing his own tongue.
“No, no, I don’t know. I swear it, I don’t know,” he babbled to Beth.
His feet scraping madly against the ground, he tried to scramble back, but there was nowhere to go. His way was blocked by his comrade’s back.
“I am just a lowly farmer. They tell me nothing. But—but he knows.” He jerked his head toward the man tied to him.
“Coward,” the second man shouted. “Traitor! The committee will hear about this and take their revenge on your miserable hide.”
Beth watched as the first man shook. He was of no use to her, but the second one was.
“The committee,” Beth told him evenly, a malevolent note entering her voice, “is not here.” Calmly she drew out her pistol and aimed at his barrel chest. Her eyes were flat and her hand steady as she looked down at him. “I am. Tell me where they are keeping him.”
Duncan exchanged looks with Jacob. The look on Bern’s face was deadly. This was not a woman to be taken lightly, but he was afraid that she would be driven to kill the man on the ground before they learned what they needed to know. That would be a waste. If need be, there were methods he had learned that would separate a man from any knowledge he had. Duncan could readily employ those methods.
“It’s a lovely sounding language, but for the life of me I haven’t a clue as to what’s going on. Is he going to tell you?”
She nodded her head slightly, her eyes never leaving the Frenchman’s face. “Or meet the devil today.” She repeated her phrase in French for the man’s benefit, her voice eerily calm.
Duncan saw that Jacob hardly blinked as he watched Beth in silence. “You are a fearsome wench, Beth. Remind me never to anger you.”
A half smile raised one corner of her mouth as she continued to keep her eyes on the men on the ground.
“Don’t worry, I shall.” The smile left abruptly as her eyes narrowed. “Well?” She cocked the trigger slowly. Sweat was pouring from the man’s brow. “Are you prepared to die for the information you have?”
It was not worth it. At all costs, he wanted to survive. Hatred glowed on his face as he told her.
“They are bringing Beaulieu to the Bastille today, him and several of the other aristocrat pigs the Friends of the People have herded together.”
She thought of the imposing edifice that had been the scene of so much misery. To think of her father there ripped her heart in two.
“The Bastille?”
The man raised his head contemptuously. “We have enough men to take it and free our own.” He would have spit at her if he had not been afraid that the big man would cut his tongue out for it. “Yours will go in their stead. To be buried alive, the way ours were.”
It was hard to restrain her emotions as she looked down upon the naked face of hate. Once more Bern’s hand tightened on the pistol. All that was needed was one simple movement to discharge it and rid herself and France of this vermin.
“Who gave you the right to play God?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“The right of the people,” the man cried. A look akin to insanity glowed in his eyes as he strained against his ties. “The same God you thought was smiling over you, you aristocratic bitch.”
“That one,” Duncan said evenly, though the smile on his lips was tight, “I understand.” He moved his sword so that it cut a long, thin jagged line just below the man’s throat. The man gasped. “Mind your mouth. The next cut will be deeper.”
Though the Frenchman understood not a word, he understood the language of the sword. Bravado fled as the man looked at Duncan in abject terror.
Beth laid her hand on Duncan’s arm. The urgency of her touch took his attention away from the prisoner.
“We have to go to Paris quickly.” She nodded at the man she had questioned. “That one said that they’re bringing my father to the Bastille today.”
Tears suddenly sprang, unbidden to her eyes. Had they been alone, she would have thrown herself into his arms and wept for joy. “Duncan, he’s alive. My father is still alive!”
“Aye.” He sheathed his sword once more, though he indicated for Jacob to keep his out. “And we must see what we can do to have him remain that way.” He glanced at the two men huddled against one another, their bravery vanished, now that there were consequences to be paid. “What do you want to do with them?”
She hadn’t thought that Duncan would leave it up to her to decide. “I?”
He spread his hands wide. “They’re your prisoners.” Though he would rather not have witnessed it, he knew that she had a right to her vengeance, a right to kill the men, if she chose. It went beyond the laws of man, to the one that nature had inscribed eons ago.
The temptation to order their deaths was great and the words hovered on her lips.
But in the next moment, Beth let go of the madness she felt surging within her before it consumed her as it had others before her. Killing solved nothing.
“Leave them tied here. We have the horses. If they free themselves, then it’s the wish of Providence.” She looked at them one last time, then dismissed their existence from her mind. “If they don’t, then God has other plans for them.”
“Done,” Duncan laughed and motioned Jacob to follow them. He laid a hand across her shoulders as he led her off to the horses.
Behind them, the men railed and sent a shower of vilifications that only Beth understood. And chose not to hear.
Chapter Thirty-three
The streets of Paris were alive with excitement and anticipation. The feeling pulsed in the air like an invisible being, consuming everything and everyone in its path. And growing larger by the moment.
The dogs of the Revolution had been let loose into the winds of war.
Beth looked about the faces of the people who were pouring into the city, drawn by a force that spoke to a different level within them than decency and respect thrived upon. As she, Duncan, and Jacob approached, the paths became thick with travelers.
Everyone wanted to take part. Everyone wanted to be in the center of the city.
Beth felt afraid when she looked at their faces. There was something not quite human about the look in these people’s eyes. It was as if they weren’t people any longer, but more like wolves that had gotten a taste of blood and craved more.
They wanted to feast on the not yet dead carcass of the monarchy.
Taking care, Duncan guided them to what appeared to be a lesser traveled road. Paths were not converging here, as they were elsewhere. They dismounted and held their horses fast. Thieves overran the streets to a far greater degree now than ever before.
Duncan looked around. A little ways beyond, they could hear the collective roar of the mob as it swelled, its number ever growing. He shook his head as he looked at Beth.
“I wish I hadn’t brought you here.” The mood of a mob was difficult to gauge, and like cows and sheep that could stampede with the slightest noise, he knew that a mob cou
ld easily turn on any one of its number.
And they were in its number.
“You forget,” Beth reminded him in a stilled voice, struggling to keep her fear from resounding clearly, “ ’Tis I who brought you.”
There was no time to debate the merits of their opposing points of view. He wanted to get them in and out quickly. With luck, they would learn something useful. Perhaps what those thieves had testified to was true. The Bastille was to fall during this hot July day. It would certainly seem so, by the looks of the mob.
Once again, Duncan looked about the streets. At least for the moment, they stood away from the focal point of the mob.
“We need to safeguard the horses somewhere before they are stolen from us. There’s a high premium on horseflesh these days, both for riding and for eating.”
He saw the horror register on Jacob’s face. It was better the lad was aware of the extent of things, Duncan thought grimly.
“There!” Duncan pointed to an alley.
The next moment, he hurried toward it, the others following in his wake. The path into the alley was heavily littered with rotting vegetables and meats that had been
cast there. It was almost thigh deep, but that made it so much the better for their purposes, Duncan thought. People would not be drawn to meander here. Jacob would be safe for the time they required.
“The stench will give them a moment’s pause before they enter,” Duncan assured Jacob, hastily bringing his horse to the rear of the narrow passageway.
There was but one way out: the way they had entered. A wall of mortar and stone blocked the forging of any other route.
Duncan thrust his reins into Jacob’s hand, as did Beth. “Jacob, I need not tell you how important these horses are to us.”
Jacob wound all the reins about his large hand. “I’ll guard them with my life,” he swore solemnly.
Duncan clasped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “No, you are more important to me than they.” Duncan began to back out of the alleyway. “See that it doesn’t come down to that. If you are not here when we return,” he called over his shoulder, his words hanging in the air moist, hot air, “we’ll search for you.”
“I’ll be here,” Jacob promised, with the surety of the simple of heart.
He waved before he sank down on his haunches to wait out the time. His eyes, ever alert, remained on the alley entrance.
It was but a few moments before Duncan and Beth found themselves increasingly surrounded by peasants. The crowd seemed to multiply. Tired-faced people whose eyes glittered with purpose, hope, and something far more deadly swelled the ranks all around them.
“Stay close,” Duncan instructed Beth, as he took her hand in his.
She walked quickly, matching her gait to his. “I was about to say the same to you. Remember, you don’t know the language.”
Duncan slanted a look at a group of men hurrying not far from him. He had seen pirates with a gentler look about them. “And you have no idea what men like this can be like.”
He took her arm instead now, grateful once more that she had thought to take Tommy’s clothing with her rather than her own. Upon a cursory examination, Beth looked like a young boy.
But anything closer would yield the truth.
Duncan hoped that there were too many people upon the streets for any to take proper notice. Every variation from the norm now roused deep suspicion, and if some in the mob thought Beth to be disguised, they would want to know to what purpose.
It would not be a difficult matter to guess.
The swell of the crowd took them almost against their wills. Duncan held tightly to Beth’s arm, thinking that if they but followed, they would arrive at the source of the excitement.
And perhaps have their questions answered.
It was not long before they found themselves in the center of the city, before a dark fortress that was imposing and awesome in its solemnity. The history of the structure was fearsome and bloody. It was not one to be thought of with pride.
By now the crowd seemed to be roaring about them, shouting encouragements and cheering the men that stood before the towering building of stone.
Beth recognized the fortress as the Bastille. The fear in her heart grew.
Duncan inclined his head toward Beth. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” He whispered the question, afraid that someone might overhear his native tongue and realize that it was different from theirs.
The very breath within her breast had halted, trapped there by fear.
“What those thieves told me is true.” Her head ached from the very thought of it. “Look, look!” she hissed in his ear urgently.
She pointed with disbelief as the gates of the Bastille were suddenly thrown open like the rusty jaws of hell. Her view abruptly obscured, Beth began to push and shove, but to no avail.
Beth turned toward him. “Duncan, I must see. Please,” she implored.
He nodded and began to push his way forward, careful to continue holding tightly to her hand. He managed to gain several yards.
Though still at a distance, Beth could see all plainly now.
A human wave of people surged through the newly parted gates, prisoners escaping their doom as they fled from the Bastille. Cries of greeting and thanksgiving littered the air.
The army that was to have guarded the Bastille were now all prisoners of the mob and the mob’s leaders.
The cheers of the mob became deafening.
And then, the man at the center of the hurricane leaped atop a cart and raised his hands for silence. As if by magic, the noise abated, like the tide going out, leaving the shore.
Robespierre commanded respect from the beast he had helped create and unleash. As yet, it obeyed. The time when it outgrew its master had not yet come.
There was pride in his face and an arrogance that was frightening to all who looked upon it. None, Beth thought, would cross this man or disobey him.
And his madness would destroy them all.
“And now, my brothers, we have freed the last of ours.” Cheers greeted the words. Again he called for silence. “In their place will go the real criminals and thieves, the real rapists of our land, our women and children.” He beckoned to his second in command as regally as any of the kings he’d denounced. “Bring them forth.”
Beth’s grip on Duncan’s hand grew so tight, she nearly cleaved it in two. The very blood left her fingers, as well as her face. Her eyes were frozen on the sight of the men and women who were being brought before the mob in chains, so many clustered to a cart like animals marked for slaughter.
“These,” Robespierre cried, “these will finally be made to atone for what they have done to us lo these many, many years.” He looked at the people in the carts contemptuously, the devil about to collect the souls whose signatures he held in his hand. “These will be made to suffer and quake while they wait for Monsieur Guillotine,” his mouth curved malevolently in rapturous anticipation, “to listen to their final pleas and pitiful screams for mercy.”
With each word, the mob became more and more incensed and unruly.
Beth watched as the carts were led, one by one, way into the Bastille. She felt her eyes moisten at the heart-wrenching sight and upbraided herself. She could not allow herself the luxury of crying for these poor souls. If she were seen crying, it would be the end of her.
None could suspect her feelings at this time for the crowd that swelled and swirled around her could easy tear her in half.
“Death, death to them all,” the crowd began to chant, their voices rising and blending as if one. The demand throbbed like the beat of wild drums.
Duncan tugged on her hand. She looked at him and saw that his lips were moving, as if he, too, were repeating the words, though he understood them not. His message was clear. To stay undetected, they perforce had to appear to be one with the mob.
Mimicking him, Beth moved her lips, though not a single sound came forth. She could not bear to utter the wo
rds, she could not bear to force them from her mouth, even to save her own life.
But to save Duncan’s, for she knew he would die defending her, she pretended to chant the blood lust cries of the crazed mob.
“Death, death to them all.”
And then her heart froze within her breast and she gave up the pretense.
Duncan saw the look of horror that overcame her. He looked from Beth toward the carts. In the midst of the last one stood a tall, thin man, patrician in appearance, even though his clothes were in tatters. He wore a small, graying beard, and even at this distance, Duncan could see the shape of Beth’s face repeated on the man’s.
“Death! Death to them all!”
Duncan leaned down to be close to Beth’s ear. “Is that—?”
She did not answer him. Instead, her fingers slackened within his and suddenly he realized that she had let go. Duncan knew her intent immediately.
Beth was pushing her way forward, trying to get to the cart.
Damn the woman, did she think she could rescue her father single-handedly while all the citizens of Paris looked on?
Beth gasped as she felt the strong arm surround her waist and pull her back, lifting her off her feet. The scream she uttered dissolved, unheard, into the mob.
She looked up into Duncan’s face. Before she could say a single word of reproof to him, he clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Not now,” he hissed. “Not here.”
No one within the frenzied mob took any notice of them. Their eyes were on the symbols of their misery: the people in the carts.
The people they had condemned to die, if not today, then tomorrow, and the more painfully, the more degradingly, the better.
Chapter Thirty-four
Somehow, though he was not certain how, as inconspicuously as possible, Duncan managed to get Beth away from the mob. Slowly they made their way back to where they had left Jacob waiting with the horses.
Duncan waited until they were clear of the rabble before he said anything to her. If he waited until his temper cooled, it would have taken too long.
“What possible good did you think you could accomplish by rushing up there?” Duncan demanded.
Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3) Page 25